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I crouch low on Drummer's neck, leaning into his rocking gallop. He's mad, tearing across the field at top speed. I can't hold him and I don't try. We pass Herald and overtake Wilkinson, who swears at us, and slow as we go into the wood. Drummer strains up the hill, making it a little easier to pull him up and wait for the others.

"What's our excuse this time?" I say, once we're all gathered on the top of the hill. Below us, the open hillside slopes down to the school, where we were due back from a cross-country ride an hour ago.

"We got lost," Herald says with a shrug.

"Third week in a row?" I ask.

"Collectively, we have a very bad sense of direction." Herald bends over and pulls a thin flask out of his boot.

"Except where pubs are concerned," I say.

Herald opens the flask and takes a swig.

"Tell 'em the truth," Wilkinson says. "Varenhoff here wanted to see that blond barmaid with the big tits again."

"And then was too much of a poncey twit to chat her up." Herald passes the flask to Wilkinson.

"I talked to her!"

"Varenhoff," Herald says, "'Can I have a bag of crisps?' isn't exactly a come-on."

I fiddle with Drummer's reins until he dances sideways. "I didn't want to scare her off."

Wilkinson laughs. "What kind of school did you go to before you came here? A monastery?"

The burning in my face fries coherent thought. It's only a matter of time before Wilkinson finds out he's not far wrong, that my experience with women is practically nonexistent. But like today, in the pub, when they g...